“Hate who?”
“White women. Indian men. Both, I guess.”
“Are you romantically involved with Junior or Victor?”
“Oh, God, no.”
“Well, then, what is it?”
“Those white women are always perfect, you know? When I was little and we’d go to shop in Missoula, I’d see perfect little white girls all the time. They were always so pretty and clean. I’d come to town in my muddy dress. It never mattered how clean it was when we left Arlee. By the time we got to Missoula, it was always a mess.”
“Did you travel with your parents?”
“Yeah, Dad drove the wagon. Can you believe that? We still had a wagon, and Dad made that thing move fast. The horses and wheels would kick up dirt and mud. Chess, my sister, and I always tried to hide under blankets, but it never worked. There’d be mud under our nails, and we’d grind mud between our teeth. There’d be dirt in the bends of our elbows and knees. Dirt and mud everywhere, you know?”
Father Arnold nodded his head.
“Anyway, all those little white girls would be so perfect, so pretty, and so white. White skin and white dresses. I’d be all brown-skinned in my muddy brown dress. I used to get so dark that white people thought I was a black girl.
“I wanted to be just like them, those white girls, and I’d follow them around town while Mom and Dad shopped. Chess was always telling me I was stupid for doing it. Chess said we were better than those white girls any day. But I never believed her.”
“How does that make you feel now?” Father Arnold asked.
“I don’t know. I just looked at that blond hair and blue eyes and knew I wanted to look like that. I wanted to be just like one of those white girls. You know, Father James even brought his little white nieces out to visit the reservation, and that was a crazy time.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, Father James wanted us all to be friends, Chess, me, and his little nieces. So we all sat together in our folding chairs and knelt down on the floor to pray. We even got to help with the candles at mass. I remember I always held onto my candle tight, because I didn’t want to drop it. I always thought flames were beautiful, you know?
“All four of us helped with Communion once. It all worked great. It was the best Communion. Then we carried the bread and wine back to the storage closet. While we were in there, those nieces pushed me over, and I dropped the wine and it spilled all over everything. On the floor, on my best dress. Everywhere. Those nieces started laughing. Me and Chess tried to clean it up. Father James came running to see what the noise was all about. When he came into the closet, those nieces started crying like babies. They told Father James that Chess and I’d been messing around and dropped the bottles. Father James really scolded Chess and me and never let us help with Communion for a long time.”
“That’s a sad story,” Father Arnold said.
“Yeah, it is, I guess. But his nieces could be nice, too. They let me play with their dolls sometimes. They were really good dolls, too. I taught the nieces how to climb trees and watch people walk by. I’d leave Chess at home and stand outside Father James’s house and wait for his nieces to come out and play. Sometimes I waited until after dark. I’d walk home in the dark all by myself. But sometimes they came out, and we played.
“And when they left the reservation, Chess and I rode down to the train station with Father James to say goodbye. Chess really didn’t want to come, but Mom and Dad made her. We stood there on the train platform, and those nieces wouldn’t even look at us. They were in their perfect little white dresses. They looked like angels. I wanted to go with them. I wanted to go live in the big city. I knew I wouldn’t get in the way. I’d sleep with their perfect dolls and eat crackers. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to have everything they had. I knew if I was like them, I wouldn’t have to be brown and dirty and live on the reservation and spill Communion wine.
“I wanted to be as white as those little girls because Jesus was white and blond in all the pictures I ever saw of him.”
“You do know that Jesus was Jewish?” Father Arnold asked. “He probably had dark skin and hair.”
“That’s what they say,” Checkers said. “But I never saw him painted like that. I still never see him painted like that. You know, we had to hug those little white nieces, too. We’re standing there on the platform, and Father James tells us to hug each other. Chess refuses to hug anybody. But I hug those nieces, and the big one pinches my breast, my little nipple. Nobody sees it at all. It hurts so bad, and I start to cry. The nieces get on the train and leave. Father James hugs me because I’m crying. He says it will be all right, he knows how much I’ll miss his nieces. I stood there in Father James’s arms and cried and cried.”
Checkers cried in the little Catholic Church in Wellpinit. Father Arnold put his arms around her, and she cried into his shoulder, the soft fabric of his cassock. She put her arms around his waist, wanted to look into his eyes, but kept her face hidden.
“Checkers,” he whispered. “What’s going on? There must be something more. You can talk to me.”
Checkers squeezed Father Arnold tighter, until her grip became uncomfortable. But he would not release her.
Coyote Springs slept fitfully in the blue van. The city frightened them, especially since the thin walls of the van barely protected them. Chess never slept much at all, hadn’t slept well for two nights in a row. She sat in the driver’s seat and listened to the men stir and moan in their sleep. She recognized the sounds of nightmares but only guessed at the specifics.
Junior dreamed about horses. He rode a horse along a rise above the Columbia River, leading a large group of warriors. They all wanted to attack a steamship, but the boat remained anchored beyond their range. The Indians watched it jealously.
The Indians cried in frustration. Some splashed their ponies into the river and attempted to swim out to the boat. Others fell off their horses and wept violently. Junior slumped, hugged his horse’s neck, and closed his eyes. In his dream, he listened for the music. He heard bugles. Cavalry bugles.
From where? a young Indian boy asked Junior.
Junior whirled his horse, looked for the source of the bugle. Everywhere. Junior heard a gunshot, and the young Indian fell dead from his mount. Then the young Indian boy’s horse was shot and fell, too. The gunshots came from all angles. The bugles increased.
Where are they? the Indian men screamed as the bullets cut them down. They fell, all of them, until only Junior remained.
Cease fire! a white voice shouted. That voice sounded so close that Junior knew he should have seen the source. But there was nothing in the dust and sunlight.
Drop your rifle! the white voice shouted.
Where are you? Junior asked.
Drop your rifle! the voice shouted again, louder, so loud that Junior dropped his rifle and clapped his hands to his ears in pain. Suddenly he was dragged from his horse by unseen hands. Thrown to the ground, kicked and beaten, Junior heard the labored breathing of the men who were beating him. He could not see anybody.
Where are you? Junior asked again, and he heard only laughter. Then the attackers began to materialize. Soldiers. White men in blue uniforms. They laughed. They spat on Junior. One soldier walked over to Junior’s pony, placed a pistol carefully between its eyes, and pulled the trigger. The horse took a long time to fall.
Who are you? Junior asked in his dream.